


The Pranks of Destiny

by derwent



Category: Picnic at Hanging Rock - Joan Lindsay
Genre: Canonical relationships, Epilogue, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:09:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26420911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derwent/pseuds/derwent
Summary: What happens after, and one what-might-have-been.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Pranks of Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Every vignette was inspired by specific lines/scenes/dialogues from the book.

If the incident at that Valentine’s Day at Hanging Rock hadn’t taken place, Marion Quade would have sailed to England after graduating from Appleyard College. 

She had won a scholarship to study at one of the first universities open for women, so she packed her trunk, said an entirely unemotional goodbye to Miranda and Irma, and went to the harbour with Ms McCraw as chaperone. Just before boarding the ship, the teacher placed a neatly wrapped gift on Marion’s hands, accompanied by a smile that was the full extent of the spinster’s emotional capability. Marion promised to write; she would keep her promise until the day a German bomb dropped on her flat and killed her.

She flourished at the university, surrounded by strong intellectual rigour that reminded her of her late father. She met another student, a young woman who was studying philosophy. After graduating, they moved into a shared flat, and as the years passed, they began to share a bed as well. It was one of the rare times Marion was caught by surprise, though not unpleasantly. In fact she welcomed the surprise, for the sense it made over the pleasure she took from Irma's ringing laugh or Miranda’s gentle smile. 

Marion wrote treatise on mathematics; and slowly she began to acquire a reputation. She was offered a position to teach at her alma mater, but found that teaching did not suit her, so she continued her research instead.

After her death, like so many of her fellow female scientists, her name was forgotten, except by those few who were willing to seek obscure papers deep in the library. At the turn of the century, though, another young woman reached for a volume of Marion’s work, and, amazed by this brilliant mathematician whose name she never heard before, began to seek her other works and eventually wrote about her. Her biography was read by so many people, and so Marion Quade’s name would not be forgotten after all.

But of course, the incident happened, and thus her name was forever remembered for her demise instead. 

*

Even until her death, Edith always welcomed any chance she got to talk about the incident. The public interest in the case dwindled down after a few years, though there were always a couple of mystery hunters and curious people sniffing around. At each anniversary (if it could be called that) of the incident, though, finally the niche interest of these people intersected with the public’s need for a new diversion to free them from the quotidian, and so another investigation was launched. 

Every anniversary Edith received letters and requests for interviews from journalists, psychologists, psychics, detectives, and anyone else with enough curiosity and nerve to knock on a stranger’s door and demand to see the owner. And Edith always welcomed them inside and shared her story, for the truth is that not only was the incident the most important thing that ever happened to her, it was also the only thing that made her worth a second glance. Without it, Edith would have been just another dull housewife with a dull civil servant husband and five dull children. 

To her credit, for all her hysterics and theatrics, Edith never claimed or hinted to knowing more than what she did, which was perhaps the only good quality her character had. 

*

Albert and Mike never talked about Irma.

Mike didn’t remember her – how could he, when Miranda inhabited each and every corner of his mind? He never married, despite his family’s protestations, and only returned to England upon their marriages and deaths. At twilight he stood and gazed at his vast pasture, and the sight of a swan with moon on its wings filled him with such desperate longing that he barely knew how he managed to draw another breath. 

Albert never brought up Irma because there was nothing to say, really. He didn’t begrudge Mike Irma’s love, for it was only natural (so he thought) that the lady would prefer a gentleman, and because if there was anyone in this world worthy of Irma’s love it was Mike (so he believed). 

And if thinking about Irma and their conversation that day in the garden aroused a vast wealth of emotions he did not know the names of – well, he accepted it as the way things were. 

Only Sara could move his mind from Irma. Sometimes he thought about going back and tracking her down, even if it took him years. And then he remembered that a wealthy gentleman had taken her in, and her life must be infinitely better than the one Albert could ever provide. So he shook off the idea and went back to his horses. Perhaps, he thought with a smile, somehow Sara and Irma’s paths cross, and although they may never know it, they were linked through him. It was enough for Albert.

*

Dianne de Poitiers never did meet Irma again, but once she came close.

It was in Paris (of course), and she was herding her two children into a museum. A short distance away, a younger woman was turning down the corner towards the museum, but a man’s voice called her. Count de Latte-Marguery took his wife’s arm, saying “I just ran into the Hartfords, darling, let’s go and sit with them. I haven’t seen Robert in years.”

“But you promised –” Irma began to argue.

“The museum will still be there tomorrow,” her husband cut her off, and dragged her inside a café. The Countess pursed her lips, but she let him anyway.

*

Sometimes, half awake, Irma would hear the rustling sound of Marion turning a page of whatever book she was reading this time. From the next room she could hear the soft strain of Miranda’s sweet voice singing. She knew, from countless times waking up in Miranda’s bed after a long night of talking, that she would be brushing her straight golden hair all the while. Perhaps today Miranda finally would let her curl that hair, she mused, and that dimple, which in a few years would become famous all over the world, came out like a star. 

She stretched her stiff limbs and let out quiet satisfied sighs, and waited for Marion’s huff and “You’ll be late,” for Marion had no patience for dawdling. But the words never came, and Irma began to register the feel of the silk sheet, the wide empty bed, and the lack of sunlight warming her face.

She opened her eyes, and saw not the white ceiling of Appleyard College, but the painted one of her husband’s townhouse. 

The water of disappointment rushed in and she let herself drown.

*

Mrs Valange put Sara’s new box of pastels on a table in her drawing room, waiting for its owner. Weeks later when she found out about Sara’s death, she turned over and over each and every interaction they had, trying desperately to know where she had cast doubt in Sara’s mind about her sincerity. The box was a constant reminder, so she shoved it into the back of a drawer. Years later, after her death, the woman hired to prepare the house for its next occupant reached into that drawer and took the box out in surprise. Correctly surmising that no one would know or would mind, she brought it home for her little boy.

*

Constable Bumpher joined every annual search for the missing persons, even after he retired. His years of experience had told him, correctly, that this was one of those mysteries that would never be solved. He offered his support anyway, for there was no harm in trying. He and Ben Hussey crossed paths often, which was only natural in so small a town. The College Mystery, however, was only ever discussed during the annual searches, where they both, once more, ascended the Rock.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy, this took a year and several re-readings, and yet there are still a few characters I didn't manage to write. I'd love to write about Rosamund and Mr Whitehead, for example, but just never came up with anything satisfactory.


End file.
